Devil With A Blue Dress On
by Hey.Look.Its.Feels
Summary: In the year 1967, High school student John Watson moves to England. Life isn't exactly great, being seventeen and living alone. But after meeting and befriending the infamous Sherlock Holmes, he figures life can't be as bad as it seems. He could get used to this. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock has an awesome taste in music- oh yeah, he could definitely get use to this.


**Note: Hey! I wrote a Sherlock one-shot a few days ago, and figured "Why not give Sherlock another try?" So here is my newest fic. I will be using 1960's slang in this, so if you see something that doesn't really make sense, it is probably because of that. :)**

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Late in the Winter of 1962, a young family celebrated Christmas Eve. It was just the four of them, but that was all they thought they needed to be happy in life. Family. The fireplace created a warm inviting aura inside their apartment, causing eager smiles to spread across their faces. The youngest, a boy twelve years of age with dark, brown curly hair, sat by the small Christmas tree, talking with his brother. His brother, who was a few years older in age, sat opposite of the younger. Both legs' were crossed.

In the next room down, a short woman with faded light brunette hair sat at table, discreetly sneaking pieces of candy from the Candy House the family had made when she knew they boys weren't looking her way. Seated on a black leathered couch was the father of the boys, and the eldest in the family. He quietly chuckled as he watched his wife's antics.

The weather outside their apartment building was perfect for the holiday season. England this time of year was beautiful, and the scenery was what you would find in children's picture books- outstanding. While the chilled air was cold against the wind, it turned up the spirits in the streets. In several emptied parks, couples sat on benches with hot chocolate in hands, declaring love and laughing kind-heartedly. Angel kissed snowflakes landed on once green fields, creating the foundation for snow men and shelter for snow ball fights. Children merrily skipped on sidewalks with snow filled cracks.

Store owners and employees packed their bags, carrying gifts for loved ones back home as they eagerly left work for the holiday. Doors were locked and windows closed as shop keepers put out 'Closed' signs for the night. Business workers paced the streets quickly, searching for cabs, hoping to finish their jobs in time to go home to their families. Infants wrapped heavily in blankets snuggled to their mother's chests, falling into slumber.

It was three hours till midnight.

Three hours till Christmas Day.

As midnight neared closer and closer, the mother ushered her two children to bed. They boy with brown curls sleepily rubbed his eyes as he climbed into his small twin bed, pulling the comforter over his cold form. Across the room, his older brother turned off his lamped and glanced out the window. He smiled as the rest of England's lights were turned off, leaving the decorative Christmas lights out as one giant nightlight for the children; inviting in Saint Nick to the homes of everyone- well, almost everyone.

Somewhere else in England sat a twelve year old boy on an old window sill, alone. His parents weren't due home for another two weeks, and his brother was at the university.

The AC in the tiny apartment had long since stopped working, so he wore a dark blue knit coat to keep him warm. He found the coat in a chest of his Grandfather's belongings when he died. The coat was foreign, from what he had discovered, and was fairly old; but he loved the thing. It was definitely expensive, well, for him anyway. It was long, like a trench coat, but _better._ After several experiments with the piece of clothing, he found out that it was waterproof, and made from Irish wool tweed, which made it all the better. He never went anywhere without it, and he certainly wasn't going to leave it alone on Christmas Eve. Most times, it felt like the coat was his only companion in the world.

The almost empty apartment was dim-lit, solemn. No colorful lights were strung. The smell of peppermint and eggnog had long since left his memory. The living room was hollow, aside from a couch with a layer of dust atop of it, and no tree was decorated or put up that year. His family thought Christmas was a wasteful holiday. They never celebrated. In his twelve years of life, he had never sat by a Christmas tree, opening presents. He had never eaten candy canes with hot chocolate, or decorated a gingerbread house. He was taught that Christmas was a waste of money, and it was highly illogical. He knew at two years of age that Santa Claus was a fictional man created to bring fake joy to ignorant children.

When he was six, he asked his mother if they could get a Christmas tree. She reminded him the never on Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs did it say "Christmas." That was the end of the discussion.

His parents weren't due home from Africa for another two weeks, and his brother was busy studying at the university. He was going to spend Christmas, alone.

He didn't really mind that much, but sometimes, when he was alone, he would think about Christmas. It might've been nice to have a tree and gingerbread houses, and presents. It might've been nice to eat a family dinner and laugh and smile and have the apartment smell of hot chocolate and peppermint.

He discarded the thought, however. Christmas was illogical and wasteful.

Snow coated the window, his head was leaned against, and he timidly raised it from the icy glass and put his palm on his forehead, feeling the cold skin. He stared out at the passing people below, as they laughed and talked and hugged. He watched as kids discarded their snowmen and ran inside, eager to fall asleep and wait for Santa to come.

Another thing he didn't understand- why would Santa come through the chimney? Several people didn't even own chimneys, and if the man was eating all the cookies kids left out, wouldn't he be like, super fat? How would he even fit? If kids were smart enough, they would've been able to figure out the truth behind the "legend." However, not everyone was as smart as him.

He breathed against the snow-coated window and quickly drew a small circle on the wet glass before the water condensated and precipitated into the air. He added two small dots inside the larger circle, and added a curved line below the dots.

A smiley face.

He offered a small smile to the emptiness around him. However, as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared of his face, replaced by a expressionless blank stare. The smile on the window smeared over the snow and left a mark. For the next thirty minutes the smiley face didn't disappear. The boy named it Richard. Richard's eyes were slightly off in symmetry, which bothered the boy to no end, but it was a smiley face. And faces aren't exactly symmetrical, and this sentence shouldn't begin with an 'and' but hey, nothing is perfect.

Who was the boy?

William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

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Now, we are going to fast forward five years, to 1967, late August.

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The grounds of Whitefield Academy were filled with new students who awaited the bell starting the day. The students conversed, chatting eagerly of their summer events. Although school had just begun, the students were scattered in groups- cliques- almost stereotypically.

Over on the tables and under the trees were the popular kids. The girls wore mini skirts that seemed to be the biggest rage; a few had on their old cheerleading uniforms from the previous year. Every girl had their hair put up in chignon buns and beehive hairdos, in a bouffant style, with headbands separating it from their bangs. Their eyelashes were as big and outstanding as their hair. The men wore extremely tight pants, hair slicked back in a mop-top and crew-cut hairstyles, glasses on their faces. Their faces were slack-jawed, and for some odd reason, most of them had on white shirts. Other groups sat together.

The hippies? Yeah, they were there too. With the round, golden glasses and tie-dye shirts. The girls wore headbands on their foreheads, and sported bellbottoms. Most of the men had batik jeans, with paisley printed button down shirts tucked in. A record player had been nailed to the school wall years ago, and they surrounded it with the "Jimi Hendrix Experience" blasting.

Several other stereotypical groups were on campus, and the sight could only be describe with one word: dynamic.

Along with the obnoxious noise of hundreds of students talking, the ground erupted with every step taken. Fall in England was a magnificent sight, and the reds and golds of the season added to the beauty. The crumbled leaves were picked up in the breeze, but were then replaced by newly fallen ones.

The sight so perfect a picture should've been taken.

So someone did.

Kneeling on the ground, a young teen held a large digital camera to his face, one eyes squinted, as he scouted the scene. Clicking a button, he heard a shutter and smiled to himself. His brushed a hand through his dirty blond hair and stood u, stretching out his leg he had been kneeling on. Letting the camera dangle from his neck, he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Quite an extravagant scene?"

A voice, which the teen assumed was directed at him, made him jump and spin around quickly, facing the stranger. The man was a few inches taller than him, and had a slightly pale tint to his skin. He had dark, thick brown curls in his hair, and was wearing a long, dark blue coat over his skinny jeans and batik button down shirt. He didn't look like any boy at school, for one thing. His hair was _curled. _It wasn't slicked back, or shaggy, or in a crew cut. It was _curled. _In his state oh surprise, the young photographer formed the most intelligent sentence known to man kind.

"Uhh...eh...I...What?" The man looked down at the other and rolled his eyes.

"The scene. I said it was extravagant." The man turned his body and gaze to the campus grounds, and the teen noticed that the curly haired teen didn't have flared pants at the bottom of his jeans- definitely different. "Sherlock Holmes." The man- Sherlock- turned back to face the other and stuck out a hand.

Accepting the hand, the blonde teen shook it a bit too slowly.

"John Watson." Sherlock nodded, quickly taking in the information.

"John, are you new here? I have never seen you before." John nodded, adding,

"Yes. My mother and father bought me an apartment here about a month ago."

"Yes of course. I would have recognized you, seeing as I know everyone and everything at this school, and I do not know you." John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's comment.

"Everyone? There are over a thousand students."

"When you have nothing to do during the summer, you find that memorizing yearbooks isn't as boring as it seems." John smiled and laughed at Sherlock's comment. Once he did not reply, a silence filled the gap between them, and John took time to fully analyze Sherlock's features. Sherlock looked slightly younger than him, maybe by a year or so. He wasn't a sophomore, maybe a junior? Or a senior, he seemed smart enough.

"What year are you?" He asked, curiously. Sherlock, who had been looking at the sky, turned his focus back to John.

"Twelfth. I'm seventeen."

"Really? Me too."

"Yes, of course, judging by the glasses your parents got you around Christmas last year. So I'm guessing you turn eighteen in December of this year?"

"Yeah..." John was surprised, and wanted to assume Sherlock Holmes to be a criminal stalker, but honestly, he was mostly amazed. "How'd you know that?"

Sherlock shrugged, and replied, "Practice."

"That's... pretty groovy." Now it was Sherlock's turn to be taken aback.

"You think that's groovy?"

John nodded. "What would've I said?"

Sherlock smirked and replied, "Beat it, kook."

"People say that?" John was taken aback.

"Everyone but you." If Sherlock was upset by that, he didn't show it. Maybe he was just trying to get a razz out of John, he didn't know.

The bell signaling the beginning of school rang out through out the grounds and Sherlock began to walk off into the building. As he walked away, he turned and offered a short wave.

"See you around, John." John offered a small waved back, before grabbing his backpack off the ground and rushing inside as well.

"Bye, Sherlock," he said to the void in front of him where Sherlock once stood.

That had been the first time he said Sherlock's name. He quite liked it. He hoped to say it more often.

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A few hours later, at noon day, lunch break rolled in and the students with fifth hour lunch were ushered the cafeteria. Seeing as his class was on the opposite side of the campus, John waited in line for ten minutes before being served his food.

Walking around, he once again noticed the cliques as they sat together. He passed the popular kids, and the goths and batcavers. He stopped shortly by the hippies, before looking down at his sweater vest and deciding he wouldn't fit in there. He felt like he was in one of the movies at the theatre, a kid in school with no place to sit before find that once table with only one person sitting.

Ironically, he happened to glance at a table with only one person occupying it- Sherlock Holmes.

Sitting down across from the other, he made sure to clatter his tray when sitting down slightly, gathering up Sherlock's attention. The taller looked up abruptly, eyes wide as to why _anyone_ would sit by him, before noticing John and relaxing slightly.

"We should ditch final hour and go somewhere," Sherlock said suddenly, making John's eyes go wide.

"Sherlock, I just et you!" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You hate it here, anyway." John narrowed his eyes, there was no way this was the same person he had met just hours ago.

"Yeah, but if I ever want to become a doctor-"

"A doctor? Groovy." John sighed.

"Sherlock, please. My parents-"

"Won't know. They sent you here. You live alone, well, you have a cat. They haven't talked to you in months. Come on, it's the first day of school. Let's make a little razz, John!"

John Watson sighed. He knew this was a bad idea. A _very_ bad idea, might he add. And adding Sherlock to the mix asn't any better. So when someone asks him why he said yes, he isn't going to know how to answer.

Maybe it was the thrill of the rush, maybe the adrenaline- he didn't know.

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John Watson sat on an old dusty chair in a flat at 221B Baker Street exactly one hour later. The place had two separate bedrooms, and a bathroom. Not to mention a kitchen that isn't in the living room.

As bad as the place was in condition, John would've done anything to live there. His small two roomed apartment with a bathroom and a bed next to his sink and mini fridge was a dump that belonged in a motel. However, it was cheap, and his parents could afford it. Sherlock came out of the kitchen holding two mugs of what John assumed to be coffee, and sat on the chair opposite of him. John blew the steam off his and drank gingerly, wincing at the steaming hot liquid which was most definitely coffee.

Sherlock set his aside, letting it cool down, before crossing his legs and putting his hands together under his chin, fingertips holding up his head. After a few moments of staring at the other John began to feel uneasy.

"Why are you staring at me?"

"I am analyzing you, John"

"But, didn't you do that already?" Sherlock unclasped his hands and leaned back, running a hand through his curls.

"No, that was just scraping the surface. I'm sorry about your dog."

"How did you- never mind." Sherlock smirked at John's reaction and picked up his mug, sipping the drink.

John, suddenly realizing the situation, was shocked. Here he was, only five or six hours after he met this man, sitting in his apartment having tea, and he didn't know anything about the guy, except for the fact his name was Sherlock Holmes and he was great at reading minds-that had to be the answer to his knowledge of everything about John Watson.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"I was wondering, do you have any family? Who else lives here?" Sherlock looked up and became slightly more serious, but not very notably.

"No one."

"Wait, you live by yourself?" Sherlock didn't seem phased by John's response.

"So do you."

"Yeah, but," John stared at the other. "My parents sent me here. You just happen to live by yourself magically? No parents? Siblings?" Now, Sherlock stiffened.

"My brother Mycroft is busy pursuing a career in government. My parents left me."

"How's you get here, then?"

"When I was twelve, my parents got fed up in a trip in Africa and decided to stay there. I was alone for a few weeks, then after Christmas, Ms. Hudson found me and decided to let me stay in the flat above her. She doesn't make me pay, because I am seventeen, but she makes me help with the chores."

"Ms. Hudson?"

"The landlady downstairs. Real old."

"Huh." Sherlock stared hard at John.

"You don't get surprised much."

"Not a lot surprises me."

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Around thirty minutes later, after John had gotten a good idea of who the crap Sherlock Holmes was, he decided to get down business.

"Alright, Sherlock, clue me in."

"Clue you in on what, John?"

"Your hair."

"My hair?"

"Your hair."

"My hair."

"Yes."

"Well, I quite like it."

"No! I mean, why isn't it slicked back, why isn't it shaggy, why isn't it a crew cut? I haven't seen anyone with hair like yours. It's... different."

"Well, okay. For starters, this is how my hair is naturally. I don't want to have anyone screw with it and what not. And, besides, this makes me me."

"It makes you, you?"

"Yeah. Think about it, John. If I changed how I dressed, how I talked, how I acted, how I looked, I would just be killing off what I was. Maybe I'm not the most pleasant person to be around, but this is me. This is who I am. And I don't want to go chopping it off. If being popular t=means being clean, then no thanks. I'm good with me."

John didn't have a reply to that.

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Later that night, as John Watson walked down the steps of 221B Baker Street, and began walking the few blocks to his apartment, he smiled.

He could get used to Sherlock Holmes.

He could get in with this.

Maybe moving to England wasn't so bad.

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**Note: Please please please comment if I should continue with this, okay? Or if you don't like it, please tell me what I could do to make it better. I completely accept criticism so please review!**


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